


Take a Walk on the Wild Side

by mulder_its_me



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Minor Character Death, Sad, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulder_its_me/pseuds/mulder_its_me
Summary: Twenty-five year old Sherlock is devastated when his mother passes away. She was his only life line and his only friend in the world and now he has no one. He's never felt so lost and alone.But, on the drive home from her funeral, he meets Victor Trevor, a kind police officer. They part ways, but meet for a second time a few weeks later, when Sherlock is truly at his worse. They hit it off and begin an unusual friendship. Victor, the ever sociable, kind, patient man and Sherlock, the antisocial, introverted, lonely kid. It takes Sherlock a while to truly open up but when he does, him and Victor become closest friends.As time goes by, Victor finds himself wanting more with Sherlock but the younger man doesn't know how to give him that. He has no experience with relationships. So they take it slowly and fall into an awkward first romance. Slow burn, some angst, some fluff and mild smut. Showcases my version of Sherlock and Victor's relationship, including their hardships. (Victor is seen as a good character in this).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy the first chapter of this story. I'm not sure how long this will be but I'm hoping to keep it going for a while. Constructive criticism is more than welcome and if you find any grammar or spelling I messed up, please let me know! I'm also working on another fic, called What it Takes to Move On which is inspired by A Shipless Ocean. Go check it out! I'm taking a break from it currently to work on this but I'll do my best to update both stories. Hope you enjoy!

When Sherlock was growing up, he felt very isolated and lonely. His father wasn't at home very often and went on very long business trips. When he did come back, he didn't spend much time with his youngest son and mostly ignored him. Mycroft, seven years older, was never willing to spend time with his brother. Their age difference made it difficult for them to bond in any way, especially as young kids. At school, Sherlock had no friends. He always felt the most alone there. The other kids weren't as smart as him and didn't care about the same things that he did. He didn't fit in with any of the cliques. The teachers didn't understand him and were never sure how to cater to his genius brain. 

The only person who made Sherlock feel less alone was his mother. For as long as he could remember, she was always by his side. She nurtured him and loved him unconditionally, despite his differences. She allowed him to explore his interests and often helped him conduct experiments when he was very small. Sherlock's mother was always by his side. Whenever he felt lonely, she was always there to remind him just how loved he was. Just how special he was. 

So, when Sherlock's mother fell ill, it was the hardest thing for him to accept. He was only twenty five at the time and she was only sixty. Yet, there she was, lying in a hospital bed, her hair falling out in clumps from the desperate attempts to save her. Nothing worked. Sherlock devoted his time to trying to find a better treatment. Surely with his big brain be could figure something out. But nothing worked. She wouldn't get better. Eventually, she died. Sherlock felt numb. He couldn't accept it. He wouldn't. It didn't feel real. 

A week later, Sherlock is driving home from the funeral. His eyes burn with tears but they never fall. The service was nothing spectacular, thrown together by Mycroft last minute. The lack of people who attended makes Sherlock fume with anger. His mother was a special woman and why didn't anyone seem to see that? His father, now even more absent in his adult life attended. He worse a perfectly pressed, bespoke suit and stood silently, staring at the grave for the entire ceremony. On Sherlock's way out, he simply rested a hand on his son's shoulder and told him to call if he needed anything. It was pathetic and Sherlock knows his other deserves more. 

He drives, barely paying attention to the road. They aren't very busy anyways and all he wants is to go home and sleep for another year. The clouds hang low in the sky, making the world around him grey and dreary. It doesn't rain like in most movies but the weather still seems fitting for such a despicable day. Sherlock finds his mind drifting too much so he flicks on the radio to help him focus on the road. After all, the last thing he wants is to get in a car accident and make this day even worse than it already was. Or who knows, maybe that is exactly what he needs. 

Either way, the radio plays softly in the background and Sherlock does his best to stay focused on the road. A few songs play and he doesn't know any of them but one song comes on. Of course, it's a song his mother used to play when he was a kid. He remembers listening to this song many times while his mother sang the lyrics. She would often throw on her records and they would have a dance party when the weather was too gloomy for outdoor experiments. Those are some of Sherlock's favourite memories. The song hits Sherlock like a truck. A flood of memories hits him and finally, the tears start to fall. His eyes burn and become blurry, so he quickly pulls the car off to the side. As the song plays, he buries his hands in his face and sob. He's not one to show much emotion, even when along but now he can't help it. The pain he feels is unbearable. 

Minutes go by and the song slowly drifts off. The radio plays commercials. Sherlock's tears gradually stop and he attempts to clean himself up, wipe the blurriness from his eyes. If he could just make it home first... 

But suddenly, there's a loud knock at his winow. He startles and turns to see a police officer standing next to his car, hand on his hip. A quick check to the side mirror concludes that there is, indeed a police car parked on the side of the road behind him, the lights flashing silently. He didn't even hear the car pull up. H

Sherlock reluctantly rolls the window down. A waft of cool air blows in his window. The air smells of rain and bugs. The police officer takes in Sherlock's appearance. When he notices his red eyes and puffy face, his expression immediately softens. 

He clears his throat. "Is there any reason you're parked here?" The man's voice is smooth and friendly. 

Sherlock sniffs, desperately trying to hide his emotions. "Um...sorry. I'll get going."

The police officer eyes him, warily. Sherlock clearly isn't a threat but he's not sure how to handle this. Finally, he speaks. "Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

Sherlock is surprised at the hospitality but embarrassed. He doesn't want to explain himself. "Yes," he says, tersely. "I'm fine."

There's another moment of silence between the two men. They regard each other, silently. "Are you sure? I just want to make sure you're being safe on the roads. It's not a smart idea to drive when you're...emotions are high."

"That's exactly why I pulled over," Sherlock snaps. He just wants to go home. The officer gives him a strained smile. 

"Sorry. Do you need a ride? I'd be happy to get you home. I just want the streets to be safe."

Sherlock scoffs. "I don't need a drive. I'm fine."

"Okay. You just look...unwell. Only doing my job, sir."

Sherlock sighs. He's being to hard on the man. "It's been a hard day," he pushes out. "I just...attened a funeral and-" he pauses before continuing. "Well, you know."

The officer offers him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry to hear that. Listen, why don't I just follow you home. It would give me some closure knowing you get home safe. I'll just tail you and leave."

Is he for real? Sherlock just wants him to go but does it really matter? It means he'll get home faster at least. What does it matter? "Fine."

"Okay. You lead the way." The police officer smiles before turning and walking back to his car. Sherlock furrows his brow. What an odd turn of events. He rolls his window back up, turns the radio off and drives onward. In the mirror, he sees the police car following closely behind him. Somehow, it makes him feel slightly less emotional. It makes him feel safer, in a weird way. He drives on. 

 

*

 

Sherlock spends the next few weeks wallowing in his flat. He doesn't leave the house and only showers once a week. He let's his beard grow in and a scrappy dusting of brown hair covers his chin. He wears he same pair of pyjama pants and a ratty t shirt and doesn't change. He hardly eats, only having toast when he becomes too weak to function. He has constant headaches because of his lack of water. He can't even bring himself to make a cup of tea. Its just too much. There's no point in trying when his mother is dead. What does he have left in the world? 

Eventually, Mycroft comes over for a visit. He doesn't look particularly well himself. His hair is a little less tamed than it usually is and his three piece suit is rumpled. Sherlock lounges on the sofa while his older brother moves around in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later he comes out with two cups of tea and a plate of toast and scrambled eggs for Sherlock. 

"Eat," Mycroft tells his younger brother, quietly. 

With all the dramatics in the world, Sherlock pulls himself up and slowly picks at the food on the coffee table. He sips at the tea. The warm liquid is comforting as it slides down his throat. Mycroft stands nearby, drinking his tea and watching Sherlock. 

When Sherlock is halfway finished eating, Mycrfot clears his throat and speaks. "You need to take better care of yourself. You're coming apart at the seams."

Sherlock snorts. Who is he to come into his flat and tell him what to do? How can he be perfectly fine after their very own mother has died. How can he wake up in the morning and take a shower and comb his hair and dress in his bespoke suit. It doesn't make any sense. "You don't get it," he says to Mycroft. 

"No," Mycroft agrees. "But you can't keep living like this. You need to take care of yourself."

"I've been trying," Sherlock says, tersely. "But it isn't working."

Mycroft sighs. He smooths a hand over his hair. "I know. But...try. Get out of this flat, at least."

Sherlock throws his hands up, dramatically. "And do what?"

"I don't know. That's up to you, but dear God, don't stay in here forever. Go do something tomorrow. Okay?" Mycroft almost sounds like he's pleading but his face remains neutral. He sets down his empty teacup on the coffee table. "I'll be back. Goodbye."

With that, he turns and leaves the flat. Sherlock sighs and stares at the empty dishes in front of him. His brother is right, he knows. He can't live like this forever. Something must be done. 

So, the next day, Sherlock wakes up earlier than he has since his mother died. He showers and shampoos his hair twice. He shaves off the scrappy beard and brushes his teeth. He dresses in a clean t shirt and a navy blue college sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. He drinks two cups of tea and has some toast for breakfast, then sets out for the day. 

Sherlock takes a cab to downtown London. The streets are moderately busy. He stops in a few shops, not really looking for anything in particular. Its just nice to be out of the house. He goes to clothing stores and tries on some suit jackets and ties, just for fun. He ends up buying an expensive pair of maroon socks and puts them on before he leaves the store, even though they don't match his outfit. When lunch time comes around, he isn't much in the mood for food but he still wants to sit down and relax. He eventually finds a small pub and decides to stop in for a drink. 

The inside is dark and grungy, as most pubs are. Music plays softly. There's a fair amount of people inside, considering its noon. Sherlock sits at the bar, away from everybody else and orders a beer and a glass of water. He's not really in the mood for alcohol but a beer does sound nice at the moment. He sits in silence, slowly drinking and surveying the room around him. There's a group of young guys sitting in one corner, talking amongst themselves, rapidly. Sherlock guesses they're university aged, only a few years younger than himself. An man in his early 60s with scraggly hair that's graying sits at the bar, chatting with the bartender. Two girls, who are Sherlock's age sit at a table, laughing loudly, sipping on some martinis. Then there's Sherlock, sitting at the bar with his beer. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his pale skin and long legs and curly hair that is getting much to long for his liking. 

After a handful of minutes, when Sherlock is halfway through his beer, the door to the pub opens. Sherlock doesn't look but whoever it is comes and sits right beside him. Sherlock makes a point not to look at the person, even turning his body slightly away. The person - a man, waves the bartender over and orders a beer. When his beer arrives, he takes a swig from it, then turns towards Sherlock. 

"Excuse me," he starts. 

Sherlock sighs loudly before turning to look at the man. To Sherlock's surprise, it's the same police officer from the day of his mother's funeral. The one who drove behind him to make sure he got home safe. 

The man speaks again. "You're the man from a few weeks ago. The one that I drove home, right?"

"You didn't drive me home," Sherlock says. "You drove behind me and followed me home."

"Right. Well, how have you been?" the man asks. Sherlock furrows his brow. He looks the man over. He's no longer wearing his police uniform. Instead he wears a dark green t shirt tucked into a pair of black jeans with a thick black belt. Sherlock realizes with a shock that his appearance is actually quite nice. His skin is tanned. His eyes are a bright green and soft, friendly. His lips are full and pink in contrast to his tan skin. His face has no freckles or marks, but along the length of his neck are multiple beauty marks. His hands are large, his knuckles point sharply outwards. His hair is a nice shade of solid brown. Its slightly messy and fluffs up in a nice, stylish way. He's older than Sherlock. He must be in his early thirties. Sherlock finds himself inexplicably attracted to the man. He's undeniably handsome and weeks ago, he hadn't notice because of his emotional state. 

"How have I been?" Sherlock repeats. "Um...fine I guess."

The man shrugs, taking a sup of his beer before speaking again. "Just checking. You were in quite the state last time. I'm sorry, you know...about whoever's funeral you were at. I know what it's like."

The man seems genuine in what he's saying and he offers Sherlock a soft smile. Sherlock's heart skips. He's relieved the man didn't ask any more details about it. "Thank you. I'm okay." 

"Good. Dealing with that can be hard. It's never good to be alone at a time like this," he comments. 

Sherlock flinches. Little does this man know, but he is alone. Completely alone. Now that his mother has gone, he has no one in this world. Yes, there's his brother and his almost absent father but they dont understand him like his mother did. He's never felt more alone in his life. "Yeah."

There's a moment of silence between them. Sherlock, who's turned slightly towards the other man, turns back so he's just facing the bar. They each take sips of their beers in silence.

Finally, the man speaks again. "So what are you doing at a pub at twelve o'clock in the afternoon?"

"Oh...well I was just wandering around the city and I got thirsty," Sherlock explains lamely. 

"Hm. Reasonable, I guess."

"What about you? Why are you here so early?" Sherlock asks. He finds himself genuinely curious about the answer. 

"Ha. I'm off duty right now and felt like a beer," he says, raising his bottle towards the younger man. "I don't exactly have time to drink while on duty so I do it when I can. Had a craving this afternoon and thought I'd indulge."

"Makes sense. Do you come to this pub a lot?" Sherlocks asks. He doesn't know why he's indulging in this conversation. Why is he going along with this? It can't just be because of his good looks. Sherlock isn't a superficial person. He hasn't even been in a relationship before. It can't be that. 

The man lets out a full laugh at Sherlock's words. Did he say something funny? "Is that a cheesy pickup line? Do you come here often?"

"What?" Sherlock genuinely doesn't know what he's talking about. 

"You know, bad pickup lines? Like, hm...'did it hurt when you fell from heaven.' One of those?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Nope."

"How can you not know about pickup lines?" the man asks, baffled. "Anyways, yes I come here quite a bit. It's quiet, not too busy when I come here. Close to my apartment, too."

Sherlock hums. He wonders what this man's apartment looks like. He's a police officer so he can obviously afford a nice one. Is it modern? 

"What about you?" the man asks. "You come here? I haven't seen you here before."

"You only just met me a few weeks ago. You probably wouldn't have noticed me anyways," Sherlock says. 

"Really? Are you kidding? I most definitely would have noticed you. You stick out in a crowd," he says to Sherlock. 

"Thanks," Sherlock says dryly. 

"I don't mean it in a bad way. You're a lot different than a lot of other people. If I had seen you in this bar before, I would have sat down beside you and started a conversation immediately."

Sherlock is shocked. He can't be serious. "Oh. Thank you." They each take a sip of their beer. Sherlock's is finished and he moves to taking drinks of his water instead. "So, why are you here today?"

"Just wandering around the city and stopped by the closest pub," Sherlock tells him. 

"Oh, you're not from here then? London, I mean."

"No, I am. I just don't go this downtown that often."

"Ah, I love it down here. I have the most beautiful view of the city," the man starts. "In the morning, I love to sit by my window and watch everyone commuting to work on the street below me. I see all types of people. I do the same when I come home at night."

"Its too busy down here for me. I live on the other side of London. Still in the city but not as busy as it is here," Sherlock says. He still doesn't have a reason for continuing with this conversation. 

"I love London. I think everyone should come here. I know most people hate tourists but I love them. I want to share this place with everyone," the man tells Sherlock. What a strange man. He seems social and friendly. He seems like the type of person to invite everyone into his arms with a warm hug. The complete opposite of Sherlock. 

They fall silent once again, though Sherlock doesn't turn away this time. They regard each other, their gazes meetin silently. The other man smiles and swigs his beer, then points at Sherlock's empty bottle. 

"Having another one?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, that's good for me. Just wanted to quench my thirst."

"Ah. I think this should be enough for me too," the man says. He chugs the rest of his beer and puts the empty bottle on the bar top. "Any plans for the rest of the day? Still wandering around the city?"

"I'm not sure. I guess...um I don't exactly have a plan."

"Me neither. I usually just take my days off by the seat of my pants." The man stretches. His t shirt stretches along his torso and Sherlock can see the muscles underneath. His throat goes dry. He finds himself wanting an excuse not to leave, to continue the conversation. 

"Well, I better get going then," he says, standing. He can't think of an excuse. But he wants to stay. During the whole conversation, Sherlock felt a lot more relaxed than he has since his mother's death. He even feels less alone. 

The other man stands with him. "I thought you said you didn't have anything on the agenda."

"I don't but I don't want to sit in here any longer."

"Well...I'm not doing anything either...um," the man clears his throat and Sherlock furrows his brow. "Maybe I can show you around this part of town. I'm not doing anything either. I mean...if you want to. Could be fun."

Sherlock is shocked. He desperately wants to say yes but he's afraid and suddenly nervous. He's a complete wreck right now. He's not one for socializing or having friends. He doesn't know how this works. But here is this man offering him something that Sherlock doesn't even understand. But he's willing to continue talking with him, he even wants to. And this man has made him feel comfortable and at ease. He wants to keep talking to him. But should he? Sherlock is reluctant. 

He takes a deep breath. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! If you want to. I'd be happy to!"

"Uh...yeah," Sherlock says, smiling. "Why not."

A sweet smile comes across the man's face. "Great! Oh, what's your name, by the way?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock!" the man beams. He extends his hand and they shake. His hand is warm and smooth. "My name is Victor. Nice to meet you."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Victor spend time together and get to know each other slowly. Sherlock contemplates his new strange relationship forming with the man and what this could mean for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning of this, I describe Sherlock as wearing a Manchester University hoodie. Turns out that's where Benedict Cumberbatch went to school! I didn't know that at all. I just wanted Sherlock to be wearing a university hoodie and since I'm not from England, I googled some universities there and picked the first one that came up. Guess I made a good choice!!
> 
> Shout out to my friend for helping me with the German dialogue!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's a bit longer than the first one and more happens in this. Please let me know what you think. (Also yes I know the first few sentences aren't in the right tense sorry oops).

Sherlock spent the rest of his day following Victor around downtown London. Some of it he'd seen before but Victor was a good tour guide. They stopped at Victor's favourite restaurants and little local shops. They stop at a small cafe and sit outside, people watching. Sherlock shows off a little, making deductions about people and Victor beams at him, telling him its an amazing talent. They spend all day together and Sherlock feels as comfortable as ever. He no longer feels as lonely. It feels so nice to have someone else to talk to. Someone who is friendly and cares what Sherlock has to say. Someone who doesn't think Sherlock is a freak or a weirdo. Its nice. 

Now, they walk around a small park that Victor took them to. The sun is starting to go down and there's only a few others in the park. Sherlock and Victor walk side by side, their arms brushing every once in a while. They haven't been talking for a while, just walking together in silent companionship. 

Eventually, Victor breaks the silence. He clears his throat. "So, what do you do for a living?"

Sherlock glances at Victor through the side of his eyes. "Mm. I haven't decided. I'd like to compose music I think. Though, I don't exactly know how to go about that."

Victor gestures to Sherlock's Manchester University sweatshirt. "Do you go to Machester, then?" 

Sherlock chuckles. "No. I went to Oxford. Studied music and some science. But I dropped out. Wasn't my thing."

"Wow, Oxford. Impressive. What instrument do you play?" Victor asks. 

"Violin. I play a bit of piano too."

"Violin," Victor repeats. "You should play me something sometime. What kind of music so you compose?"

"Oh, lots of stuff. Classical, mostly. I dabble in jazz, although violin isn't the greatest instrument for that," Sherlock explains, cringing at the end. "I've been meaning to get into woodwinds. Soprano saxophone might be my next endeavor."

"Sounds like fun to me. Maybe you can start your own orchestra one day. What do you do for money now, though?" Victor asks, as politely as possible. "Are you selling your music?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I'm not, unfortunately. I've done some performances though, for money here and there. I mostly assist on cases for Scotland Yard. Pays the bills."

"Scotland Yard. Wow, surprised I've never hear of you. Are you a detective of some sort?"

"Yes. I like to call myself a Consulting Detective. The police consult me when they can't figure out a case. My deduction abilities allows me to solve criminal cases very easily," Sherlock explains. 

"Wow," Victor says, once again. "That's amazing. You really have such an interesting life and you're so young. You're what - twenty?"

Sherlock flushes. "Twenty five."

"You look so young. I'm much older - thirty three," Victor tells him, chuckling a little. 

"You aren't that much older," Sherlock says softly. "And you already have your life together. I don't."

Victor snorts. "I do not have my life together, trust me. You know, I dont even want go be a cop. Not really."

Sherlock surveys the other man. His eyes are downcast and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He's never told anyone this before. "Why not? It pays very well, I assume."

"I don't know. It seemed like the easy thing to do. My father was a cop and I had a talent for it and I didn't really have any other ideas for a career. Seemed like the reasonable option."

"And now?" Sherlocks asks. "Now you regret it?"

"Yes. I didn't really have any other passions growing up but now...I've kind of gotten into writing in the past few years," he says. "You know, I have three novels finished at home. They're just sitting on my computer, untouched, not going anywhere."

"What?" Sherlock says, baffled. "Why don't you get a publisher?"

Victor sighs. "I don't know. I think...I'm afraid. That I won't actually be a good writer and I'll have to stick with being a cop. I just can't bring myself to do anything with them. I still write tough. Everyday I sit down after work and write at least a sentence or two."

"You should find a publisher," Sherlock tells him. 

Victor turns to give Sherlock a smile. "And you should sell your music. Be a real composer."

Sherlock smiles back at him. They continue walking. The sun is nearly gone and the sky is dark above them. The gravel crunches under their feet. A Labrador retriever races past them, chasing a stick that its owner threw for it. A married couple walk with their young child through the park, swinging him from his feet every once in a while. They reach the end of the path and are back at the entrance, where they started. The stop walking. 

Victor stretches and peers up at the sky. "Beautiful sky tonight. I come to this park often to watch the sunset. I just love this city."

Sherlock hums, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. It's time to say goodbye. Sherlock has to take a cab across the city and Victor likely has to work early in the morning. They should part ways but Sherlock doesn't want to. He wants Victor to invite him to his apartment for coffee. He wants to stay up all night with the older man, talking and people watching from the window in his flat. He wants Victor to show him his writing and he wants to play him one of his violin pieces. He wants--

"I guess we'd better part ways," Victor says, breaking Sherlock's train of thought. "Did you have a fun day?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies. He means it. This is the most fun he's had in a long time. 

They look at each other, staring into each other's eyes. Victor's green ones sparkle in the dark night. A small smile plays on his lips. They're standing very close. Sherlock can almost smell Victor from where he's standing. 

"I want to see you again," Victor whispers. Sherlock's body tingles with excitement. "Please. You can show me around your part of the city next time."

Sherlock huffs out a breath. "I--I'd like that. Um..."

"Here. Let's exchange numbers. My schedule is very busy. I can text you when I'm free next," Victor says. 

They hand over each other's mobiles and put their numbers in one another's phone. When Sherlock tucks his mobile back into his coat pocket it feels heavier against him. He notices the weight of it. 

"Okay. Um...are you okay to take a cab back?"

"Of course."

"Alright. I'll text you. See you soon," Victor says. He grins at Sherlock. He takes a few steps back and heads towards the exit of the park. He holds up a hand. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock waves. "Goodbye, Victor."

 

*

 

The following week is a better one for Sherlock. Though, he still spends most of his time locked up in his flat, he actually goes an assists with a crime scene one of the days. He picks up his violin and plays something other than the sad ballads he's felt stuck to. He tries to start another experiment, using the fingers he got from the morgue weeks ago. He feels better in general. Sadness still plagues him of course, but it's a step forward. He can't sleep and at night he opts for composing music. He still spends hours thinking of his mother. He doesn't want to forget her appearance or what her voice sounded like. He goes through countless memories of her in his Mind Palace. He still breaks down and cries but he's getting better, little by little. 

Sherlock desperately wants to receive a text from Victor. He knows the man is busy but he wants some communication with him. Even a simple hello. As the week goes on and there's still no text from the other man, Sherlock begins to feel dejected. Maybe Victor gave him the wrong number on purpose. Maybe he really doesn't like Sherlock and only spent the day with him because he felt sorry for him. Maybe Victor thinks he's a freak after all. Maybe the connection he felt between them wasn't even real. 

Sherlock tries to forget about it. Why should he even care? He's never needed anyone before. Most people aren't worth his time so why is he giving this stranger his time? He's just another idiot walking the streets. It's probably for the best that Sherlock doesn't talk to him anymore. He doesn't need friends. 

Of course, on Sunday morning, Sherlock has just rolled out of bed, after somehow getting a few hours of sleep and notices a notification on his mobile. He picks it up, hoping for a text about a case. But, when he looks at the screen, his heart flutters with excitement. It's Victor. He hastily opens his phone and looks at the text. 

[Hey, Sherlock. It's me, Victor. Sorry I didn't get in touch with you earlier. Super busy week at work. I'm free today! Want to hang out?]

A huge grin settles across Sherlock's face. He knows he shouldn't be this excited about a text from someone he barely knows. Nonetheless, be texts back. 

[It's alright. What did you have in mind?]

Sherlock hopes his texts doesn't sound too desperate. He decides to leave his phone on the nightstand as he gets dressed and ready for the day. He has a quick shower and tames his hair. Washes his face, brushes his teeth. He dresses in a long sleeved, maroon polo, tucked into dark wash jeans with black shoes. When he comes back into his bedroom and checks his mobile, another smile comes across his face. 

[What if you show me around your area like you said? You can show me your flat.]

Sherlock cringes. His flat is currently a big mess. He hasn't really taken much care of it, in all his days of wallowing. There's books and papers strewn everywhere and dirty dishes piled up. His experiment with the fingers still sits out, now abandoned. There's sheet music everywhere. Even the smell the place is musty. 

[It's kind of a mess here. Not sure that's a good idea.]

Hopefully he doesn't come off as a slob to Victor. Somehow, Sherlock sees the man being very clean and organized. He probably wouldn't appreciate the mess at Baker Street. Sherlock walks into the sitting room as Victor texts him back. 

[That's okay. You can come to my flat instead. I'll brew us up a pot of coffee.]

Sherlock smiles. He's very curious about Victor's flat. He wants to see how the man lives. 

[Okay. What time?]

[You can come now, if you want.]

Victor tells him the address and Sherlock heads to the door, throwing on a black windbreaker as he leaves. Just as he's hailing a cab, his phone pings with another text. It's from Victor again. 

[I can't wait to see you.]

 

*

 

When Sherlock arrives at Victor's apartment complex, the first thing he notices is that it is definitely a nice building. It's a large brick building with security doors at the front and a large desk, almost like a hotel. Of course, Victor lives in the penthouse and Sherlock takes the smooth elevator all the way up there. Sherlock walks up yo Victor's door and takes a deep breath before knocking soundly. 

There's a few moments of nothing, then the door swings open, revealing Victor. He's beaming at Sherlock. His brown hair is even messier than last time, though in an endearing way. His green eyes sparkle just as Sherlock remembered. Victor is wearing black jogger sweatpants and black t shirt, making him look very comfortable. 

"Hi. Come in," Victor greets. He opens the door wider and Sherlock steps inside the flat.

Sherlock is shocked when he takes a look around. The entire flat is decorated with soft greys, whites and blacks. It's a huge place and very open concept. First, there's a small open entryway with a few hooks for coats and a mat for shoes. To the left, there's a wall with two doors which most likely lead to a bathroom and guest bedroom. To the right is where the kitchen lies. Its large and modern, with all stainless steel appliances. The countertops are black and the shelving is grey. Sherlock notices two cups of coffee sitting on the island. The far wall is one large window. Against it there's a sitting room, with a chair and a sofa and a TV that sits against another wall. On that same wall, there's another door. Sherlock assumes it leads to Victor's bedroom. The apartment is beautiful. Natural sunlight streams through the large windows. 

"This is really nice," Sherlock comments. He's sure he's gaping but doesn't really care. 

Victor shrugs, modestly. "Thanks. Here," he says, leading Sherlock over to the kitchen. He hands him one cup of coffee. "There's your coffee." They stand, each taking sips, Sherlock steadfastly avoiding Victor's eyes. Now what? "Let me show you the view from the window."

Sherlock follows Victor further into the apartment, until they're standing, looking out the large bay windows. The view is beautiful. They are just high enough that they can see the entire city but can still see the pedestrians walking around below them. Now Sherlock understands what Victor meant. 

"This is beautiful," Sherlock breathes. He sips his coffee and stares at the people moving around on the street below them. A balding, round man in a rumpled grey suit with a briefcase hurries by, likely late to work or a meeting. A very young blonde woman walks along the street, holding the hand of a little girl who smile widely as they speak to one another. A group of young teenagers in school uniforms walk together quickly, laughing and playfully pushing against each other. There's a dog walker who's being pulled along the street by five large dogs and one small one. 

"I told you," Victor says., smiling at the younger man. "Like I told you, I sit here drinking coffee every morning, watching people commute to work, kids going school. Just like we're going now. It's nice to do this with someone else."

Sherlock hums. They keep watching the people pass by below them, drinking their coffees, standing next to one another. After a while, Sherlock finishes his coffee and he notices that Victor has finished too. Now what? He clears his throat. "So, what do you do around here?"

Victor turns to him, surprised. "Well, most days I'm not even here. I work a lot of hours. But the time that I do spend here..." he pauses, thinking about it. "Well, I write mostly. I try to pick up new hobbies. I read a lot, too."

"What hobbies?" Sherlock asks.

"Hmm. Right now I'm really into learning languages. I've started German."

"Really? What can you say?"

Victor shrugs, a little sheepishly. "Nothing much. mein Name ist Victor. Schön dich zu."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Ah. Und du auch. Sherlock Holmes."

Victor beams. "Wow! You speak German?"

"Only the basic stuff. I think it's important to know a little of each language. You never know when it can be useful."

"I agree. I want to learn German for a while. Then move onto something else. Might pick up French again. Never was very good at it in school."

"What else?" Sherlock asks. "What other hobbies?"

"Uh...I'm thinking about learning an instrument. I'm not sure what yet. Possibly guitar," Victor tells him. 

"Guitar is what everyone learns," Sherlock scoffs. "You should pick something more interesting."

"Oh yeah? Like the violin?" Victor says, playfully. 

"Well...yes."

They both laugh. Victor's eyes crinkle at the corner as he laughs. His mouth pulls at the corners and shows off his teeth, which are perfectly straight and white. He's very nice to look at. Victor reaches over and takes Sherlock's mug from him. He turns around and walks to the kitchen. Sherlock lingers behind him. He watches the man place the mugs in the sink and run some water through them. When he's finished, he turns around and leans against the counter. Sherlock stands awkwardly. He doesn't know what to do or say. It's been a long time since he's done something like this. Made a friend. It might even be the first time. 

"Can you show me some of your writing?" Sherlock asks suddenly. He isn't sure where it came from. 

Victor tense a little. "Um...really?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Yeah. I'd like to read some of it."

"Uh...okay. No one's ever read it before," Victor warns. He pushes off the counter. "Let me go get my laptop from my bedroom." 

Sherlock watches Victor disappear into his bedroom. He breathes out a breath he didn't know he was holding in and goes to sit on the sofa. After a few moments, Victor comes out and sits next to him. He opens his laptop and they're silent as he logs in and finds all of his writing. 

"What do you want to read?" he asks. 

"What do you have? Didn't you say you wrote three novels?"

Victor sighs. "Yes. Well, the first one is about a young boy who lives this terrible life. His family is broken. His dad is absent, his mother constantly has these boyfriends over and she sells drugs. His life is a mess. Kids bully him at school and he gets involved with a bad crowd. All that fun stuff. Anyways, his life is a mess and to get away from it all he makes this amazing world of his own. He starts by drawing out different places. Making really good art work of these concept worlds. Then, he gets more into it. He starts creating how own world with his own rules and religions and holidays. It's a world where anyone can do anything they want. He starts imagining himself in it. How his life would play out if he were different characters with different lives. So whenever his mom is yelling at her boyfriend or when his siblings are fighting or when he's just finished getting beat up at school, he goes into his mind and imagines he's in that place. In that free world that he created all by himself."

"I want to read that one," Sherlock says, without hesitation. 

"You haven't heard the other ones yet."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I want that one. Please."

Victor's eyes widen. He nods and clicks open the document. He shifts the laptop on Sherlock's lap for him to read and the younger man starts. He doesn't read the whole novel of course, but he finishes the first chapter. After all, he is a quick reader. Sherlock is astonished at how much he relates to the young boy in Victor's book. Just like the boy, his father is absent. He was the freak at school, he got beat up every week, his parents fought, his life was not fun growing up, he was alone. The writing is amazing, too. Victor writes with such eloquence. He puts details where they're necessary and creates a scene so well. Sherlock can see the entire book unfolding in his mind like a vivid memory. 

When Sherlock finishes, he slides the laptop over to the other man. Victor peers nervously at him through his lashes. "What do you think?" 

"It's perfect," Sherlock tells him. He means it. "You need to publish it. I want to read it all."

Victor's cheeks flush ever so slightly. "You can't be serious. I wrote this years ago-"

"There is not one flaw in your writing. It's -- Victor, you write so well. I -- I love it, I do. I'm serious," Sherlock says. 

Victor huffs, not believing it. "Thank you. I...no one's ever read it before."

"I know," Sherlock whispers. "But they need to. Everyone should read it. Please, let me finish it. Send it to me."

Victor smiles warmly. "Okay. I can email it to you."

 

*

 

Sherlock and Victor spend a few more hours together. Victor makes them ramen noodles and another round of coffee and they sit on the sofa talking about anything that comes to their minds. Sherlock lets himself enjoy the conversation and finds himself relaxing into the other man's company. They talk briefly about their experiences growing up. Sherlock doesn't expose a lot but he tells Victor that his childhood was not a picture perfect one. Victor, being the ever kind and patient man he is, gets the hint and easily moves onto the next topic. Sherlock learns that Victor grew up in the country, in a large house with four other siblings. His parents were successful and wealthy and able to provide Victor with top notch education. He also learns that despite all this, Victor's childhood also wasn't an ideal one. 

Victor tells Sherlock how between the ages of eight and eighteen, he was on the swim team. Sherlock turns red at the thought of this. He can't help but imagine what Victor would look like swimming laps in a pool. How his hair would look slicked back with beads of water dripping off and landing on his bare chest. He pushes the thoughts out of his mind, brushing them off as nothing more than an over the top imagination. Victor was into all types of sports when he was younger, including rugby, basketball and even gymnastics. Although swimming was his main sport, he always tried out every other one just to see if he would like it. Sherlock does his best not to imagine Victor playing these sports as he tells him these stories. 

They talk forever. Victor asks about Sherlock's hobbies as a young boy. Sherlock tells him about the countless hours he spent studying the bumblebees in his garden and trying to capture them for days on end. He tells him about spending hours in the woods collecting fungi samples for experiments and to study. About how he used to be very much into nature and would go out everyday and observe the patterns of the animals that lived nearby. He tells Victor how, as a teenager he moved chemistry instead of biology. He tells him about his mantra experiments he conducted in his bedroom and the ones that resulted in explosions and great messes. He feels a little inadequate telling the stories of him holed up being a science freak in contrast to Victor's athletic and social tales. But Victor holds along to every story and hangs on Sherlock's every word, sympathizing when there's a sad part or giving a full belly laugh when there's a funny part. 

Eventually, they decide it's best to part and for Sherlock to go back to his respective apartment. Sherlock tries his best not to be disappointed but he realizes its fairly unusual to spend this amount of time with someone who's practically a stranger. When Sherlock is home that evening, he wonders about their relationship. Surely they can't be classified as friends? They've only known each other for a week, if you don't count their first meeting. Plus, in that entire week, they only hung out twice. That can't constitute as friends already? Still, its confusing. They seem to be more than just acquaintances. Acquaintances don't know details like the details Sherlock knows about Victor's life. Acquaintances don't really send time together unless they run into one another and they certainly don't share stories or thoughts with each other that nobody's ever heard before. 

Sherlock spends time thinking about this. He isn't sure how to classify his relationship with Victor at all. The idea of having a friend is exciting to him, as much as he doesn't want it to be. He's never had one before. Even growing up, the only person he would call a friend would be his mother but he isn't sure that actually counts. Sherlock has never met someone new and actually wanted to spend long amounts of time with them. But with Victor, Sherlock feels that he could spend hours on end with the man. He isn't sure what intrigues him about the older man but something does, for sure. He wants to know everything he can about Victor, to eat up all the data and intimate details he can about him. 

And in a strange way, that Sherlock doesn't understand, he kind of wants Victor to do the same for him. Somehow, Sherlock wants to share everything with the police officer. He finds himself wanting to tell Victor his every thought or new idea. Victor is very supportive and makes Sherlock feel comfortable and Sherlock feels he trusts the other man enough to tell him secrets and stories about his life that he would have never dared to tell anyone before. He isnt exactly ready to do so. Some parts of his life are so secret and close to him that he isnt sure if he can share them yet but Sherlock feels that someday, he will be able to tell Victor everything. 

The thought of that, of sharing your entire life with another person and having them do the same, makes Sherlock's heart skip a beat. It makes him anxious and excited at the same time. He reminds himself that he's only known Victor for a very short time and that he has to take his time opening up. He needs to gain the man's trust and keep his walls up, at least a little bit for a while. Still, this doesn't stop Sherlock from fantasizing about months from now, when he trusts Victor with anything and they can tell each other everything. It sounds absolutely wonderful.


End file.
